my slumbering heart
by vega-de-la-lyre
Summary: "You two weren't planning on getting started without me, were you?" Victorian AU; Ariadne/Arthur/Eames.


"Pink," Ariadne says, dismayed.

Arthur looks down at the pale rose tarlatan he's holding out and then looks back up at her, confused. "What's wrong with pink?"

Ariadne is only half-dressed, her hair still in unpinned ringlets on her shoulders. At the moment, he might be forgiven for thinking her some sort of delicate flower, hampered as she is by yards of cambric and frothing lace; but really, she thinks. _He knows me better than that._

"Do I look," she says, "like the sort of girl who wears pink?"

Arthur opens his mouth thoughtfully but is interrupted before he can speak.

"Was my gift not to your satisfaction, darling?"

Eames is walking into the sitting room, doing up his cufflinks. Abruptly, Ariadne crosses her arms over her chest; he notices, and grins as he settles himself into an armchair by the fire.

"Would you prefer I got you something scarlet?" he says. "Puce? Mustard? Don't be vulgar. Pastels are fresh and lovely on a young lady with a complexion like yours."

"I'll give you fresh and lovely," she says warningly, and Arthur leans against the doorframe, half to block Eames from her sight, half to offer her a sympathetic look.

"You know," he says quietly, so Eames can't hear, "you don't have to wear it if you don't have to. We can find something else."

"Ah, no, we won't," Eames calls. Ariadne looks past Arthur's shoulder; Eames is flipping through the portfolio of instructions Dom left behind before his hasty trip to Egypt, cradling a brandy in his other hand. "It's a little too late to find a substitute, pet. It's made to your measurements exactly, and we're already bloody late."

Ariadne shares a wearied glance with Arthur. "Thank you anyway," she says to him.

"Thank _me_" Eames says indignantly, tossing the portfolio aside. "Good Lord. _Americans_."

Ariadne makes a noise of disgust, takes the dress from Arthur, and slams the door to her dressing room behind her.

_We need_, she thinks decisively, _to add another woman to the team_.

* * *

Ariadne had not actually meant to pitch a fit over the dress. She does, for the most part, trust Eames's judgement. He has spent a long time making a career out of this kind of pretense, after all, and she would never call herself an expert on matters sartorial _anyway_. It is only that she is absurdly nervous; this is her first job without Cobb, who, despite all his instabilities and eccentricities, always, _always_ gets everything taken care of. She's not going into the dream with the boys; they do not, on the whole, trust her yet to go into the field, but she realises that she is as yet young and unproven and knows that so long as she does her part and does it well she may yet be allowed to go in with them. Someday. But thanks to the emergency in Egypt they're short half their team and so they're depending on her to coordinate everything on this side and to stand guard for them, and she just knows that everything's going to go violently wrong and it will be all her fault and they will all go to prison, or worse.

She realises that she has been picking at her gloves, tugging the kid loose at the knuckles and then stretching her fingers into claws to fit them neatly again. Surreptitiously as she can, she tugs them higher up her arms to pull them smooth, and Eames, swaying with the rhythm of the jolting coach on the seat opposite, gives her a calculating look.

"It's a very simple job, Ariadne," he says. "You needn't get yourself in a state over it. Arthur and I are a perfectly competent team, you know, even without our fearless leader."

"I – I know," she says, startled. She drops her hands into her lap. "I wasn't doubting you. Either of you."

"I should clarify," he says as the carriage stops outside a townhouse already ablaze with lights and buzzing with noise. "I make a perfectly competent team all on my own. Arthur is a hindrance, but I am all the more heroic for carrying his dead weight and succeeding all the same."

"Please," Ariadne says, grinning. She never teased like this, before she knew these people; but sheer proximity to the boys on a daily basis makes her bold and glib. "After everything you two have done? You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if you had to work without him."

"And if you ever let those words leave the confines of this carriage," Eames says very seriously, leaning forward till his knees are touching hers, "I will have to murder you, so mind your tongue."

As he finishes, Arthur opens the carriage door and clambers up to sit beside Ariadne. "Are we ready?"

Eames sits back, and Ariadne tries to arrange her face into something slightly less amused. Eames doesn't bother.

"You make a very good coachman, Arthur," Eames says with a mocking smile as he settles his hat on his slicked-back hair. "If we ever find our careers cut short, you could make a nice living for yourself in this line of work."

Arthur glares and Eames subsides, only murmuring, "It was only a suggestion," even as that smile is still playing on his lips.

"Shall we, then?" Ariadne says after a moment, and with a last look at Arthur Eames steps out of the carriage first and then hands her out with finesse.

* * *

Eames claims her for the first set, as his right; they have decided that for their cover story she is a rich American heiress come this side of the pond on the prowl for a title, while he is her cousin – on her mother's side, you know – generously escorting her in lieu of her poor consumption-stricken father. Ariadne manages to make it through the dance without a stumble, more through blind luck than anything else; her Greek scholar of a father (her real father, still alive and happily pottering around his library in New York) had been far more concerned with giving her as sturdily classical an Education as he received in his youth than with training her in the social graces.

_Blind luck and Eames, that is_, Ariadne mentally amends after some consideration. He is – surprisingly, for such a solid sort of man – an elegant dancer, and does as neat a job managing her skirts as she does tripping over them. He makes her look good, she suddenly understands; well, it is his job, she supposes, making her a pretty target for their mark to fixate on – but all the same.

He looks good, too, she realises. Here, Eames cannot resort to his trademark fallbacks of dream projections and pretensions, but, still, his transformation from bully-boy to toff is remarkable. Dressed all in crisp black-and-white, his shoulders back and spine ramrod-straight, face pleasant and blank, it's like he's lost all indicators of who he once was – who he is. Without that trademark slouch, his hands out of his pockets, his voice clipped and precise and shed of its working-class accents, Ariadne isn't sure if she'd recognise him off-handedly and the thought is a little sobering.

But as the music ends with a flourish and he leads her off the floor, he briefly covers her hand with his, and at the sudden electric heat of his fingers over hers she looks up at him, startled. He winks, and she finds herself biting back a smile as he leans in.

"Go on and get him, darling," he whispers, his breath stirring the wings of hair over her ears. "Arthur'll give you the signal. And I promise you, the pink looks lovely. Miss Bloomer's costumes are very charming in theory, but this suits you entirely better."

"_Eames_," she says, exasperated.

He is already backing away, raising his eyebrows wickedly. "Have fun," he says, before drifting off in the direction of a stunning blonde

She inclines her head sarcastically, but that is all she has time to do before she is swarmed by a cluster of young men all falling over one another to compliment her and pencil themselves in on her dance card.

She could get used to this.

The job, she reminds herself. Right. The job.

* * *

It seems that making a giddy giggling idiot of herself does the trick quite well. Norwood – their host and their mark – did not pay any kind of particularly attention to Ariadne when receiving her and Eames upon their arrival, but as she bounces off the floor after a particularly vigorous _schottische_ she finds him waiting for her in all his ruddy-faced, white-haired glory.

Ariadne remembers fishing with her father on the banks of the Hudson, and congratulates herself for so cleanly reeling in her prey.

"You seem quite flushed, dear girl," Norwood says. He takes her hand and her waist and steers her away from the latest young fop to squire her around on the dance floor, leaving a disappointed crowd of men behind them. "We must get you some refreshment."

"You're too kind," she says demurely. All she is wondering is if she has managed to time it correctly; she tips her chin up a little and catches sight of Arthur, now changed from his coachman's uniform and coat into formalwear. Arthur nods sharply at her, and in response she smiles up at Norwood and barely, just barely, bats her lashes. "I have heard the very best things about the punch."

The refreshment room is a little nook just off the ballroom, well-stocked with drinks and food. It is mostly empty, at this point in the evening. Norwood ignores the attendants and pours her some punch from the greay crystal bowl in the middle of the display himself, putting on an impressive show of gallantry.

"Too kind," she repeats, taking the cup from his hands. She pretends to drink, just to have something to do with her hands, and as she moves her head she feels something fall loose from her hair and brush the back of her neck. Startled, she reaches behind her head, but Norwood beats her to it.

"You're losing a flower, I'm afraid," he says.

"Oh – don't worry, I'll get it – "

"Don't be silly, my dear," he says, and he touches the side of her face and gently tilts her head toward the light, fingers moving over her hair.

"_Sir_," she says, heart fluttering, but he pats her curls, and says, "_there_," as he beams at her. It looks more like a leer, and while Ariadne appreciates the effectiveness of her flirting, it still makes her skin crawl.

"Why, thank you," she says.

"My pleasure," he says.

She's very sure.

Suddenly, Ariadne pushes her cup into Norwood's hands as she bends over her skirts with a cry of horror. "Oh, dear, I'm afraid one of my flounces has ripped loose – it must have been from the dancing, I knew I shouldn't have left Freddy take me on that last turn," she says despondently. It hasn't ripped, of course, but she flaps the fabric around showily to hide that fact.

"I can manage very well with flowers, but I'm afraid needlework is beyond my skill," Norwood says. She seems to be expected to giggle in response, so she does.

"Then I must beat a hasty retreat," she says. "Thank you for the – "

For the what? She lowers her eyes and trails off. It seems to have done the trick.

"Yes, of course," he says. She flicks her eyes back up; that one is most certainly a leer. "Let me escort you to the dressing room. How you ladies would manage without a team of maids standing behind with thread and scissors to see you off – "

"It is silly, is it not?" she says. "But, it is only down the hall, sir, I think I can make it on my own," she adds saucily. _Saucily_. If her father could see her now… good Lord, if _Eames_ could see her now.

"Please," he says. He is still holding her cup, she notes with satisfaction. "I couldn't let you get lost; what sort of host would that make me?"

He holds out his arm and she takes it, following meekly as he leads her through an adjoining room and into the front hall of the house.

"Have you," Ariadne says when they are nearly to the ladies' dressing room, "had an opportunity to try the punch yourself? You really should; there is a tang to it that I can't quite put my finger on."

Norwood smiles down at her indulgently. "If you insist, my dear," he says.

He drinks, touching his lips just where hers had touched the glass, his eyes on her the whole time. She barely restrains a shudder, and carefully trains her face to stay open and cheerful.

"Mmm," Norwood says. Already, he is looking a little dazed. "It is rather potent, is it not?"

"I certainly hope so," Ariadne says, and then he tips over at her feet, unconscious.

Ariadne isn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

She settles for leaning against the hall, shaken. She knows there was no real danger of him setting himself upon her – Eames and Arthur and Cobb have all trained her to defend herself, and he is nothing more than a foolish old man, not a truly wicked one – but it has been a bracing experience all the same. Carefully, she coaxes the hem of her dress out from where it has caught under his shoulder, and as she is doing so she feels a touch at her shoulder.

She spins, flailing one arm wildly.

"Hey, hey," Arthur says, ducking away out of range, his hands up defensively. "It's just me."

Ariadne very narrowly stops herself from cursing. "Good – heavens," she says finally, lamely, touching her forehead.

Arthur is already kneeling to turn Norwood over onto his back. "Did he drink it all?"

Ariadne pats her sash where she transferred the vial of sedative from her hair after emptying it into her cup of punch. "And then some," she says, feeling her heartbeat settle back into its usual rhythm.

"Good," Arthur says, checking his pulse. "Well, he'll wake up with one hell of a headache, but he'll be none the worse for wear."

"That's a shame," Ariadne says with a little more vehemence than originally intended, and Arthur looks up at her, pressing his lips together. She cannot tell if he looks impatient or sorry for her, and she glances away at last, checking to see if Eames is on his way.

"Norwood's not much of a charmer, is he?" Arthur says finally.

"That is putting it mildly," Ariadne says, meeting his gaze again. He gives her a half-smile which she returns after a moment, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks.

"You two weren't planning on getting started without me, were you?"

Eames is strolling towards them, smoothing his hair back smugly. Ariadne steps back from Arthur, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close she was hovering over him.

"Finally," Arthur says, standing. "Could you please get him out of – "

Just as he is speaking Ariadne jumps and turns at the sound of cheerful feminine voices wafting down the hall. Her heart begins to pound in her ears.

"Go," Arthur mouths.

Eames bends and hefts Norwood up over his shoulder, and has no qualms about swearing enthusiastically – if quietly – as he does so. "You think while we're in there we might try our hand at a bit of inception, give him the idea to lay off the pudding?"

"_Jesus_, Eames, keep it down," Arthur says, glancing back as the voices get closer. He hurries them both down the passage and through two sets of doors, finally ushering them into a darkened parlour.

Eames lets Norwood fall to the floor with a dull thud. Ariadne pulls the door to behind them, leaving it open just a crack so she can keep an eye on the quiet hall outside. Arthur slips behind a bookcase and pulls out the embroidered carpetbag he stashed there several hours ago, when they first arrived.

"And you're sure no one will come down this way," Eames says while Arthur lifts out the mechanism, trailing tangled chains and copper wires, the whole thing jangling faintly in his hands.

"Well, so Nancy tells me," Arthur says, spreading the mechanism out over a low map table. "This whole wing of the house isn't being used; apparently his finances are in worse straits than we thought."

Eames immediately perks up. "Who's _Nancy?_" he asks delightedly, leaning in close over Arthur's shoulder.

"None of your business," Arthur says. His lips are twitching, a rare display of humour on his part. "Bring him that way, please."

Eames unceremoniously drags Norwood by the ankles across the plush carpet, closer to where Arthur is busy setting things up. Ariadne makes herself useful by pulling the sheets off a chaise and an armchair for Eames and Arthur to occupy when they're under; she sends up a cloud of dust in the process, and sneezes violently.

"_Shhhh_," Eames says as he unbuttons his cuffs. Arthur has managed to untangle the wires, and together they start to hook themselves and Norwood into the machine, Eames wincing as the needles slide into his wrist.

"I do hate this part," he says.

"Half an hour?" Ariadne says. It really is a simple job; she had to design nothing more complicated than a replica of his favourite club, and with any luck, an evening of brandies and cigars with Eames – playing, of course, Norwood's lawyer and cherished confidant – should relinquish the information they need from Norwood's subconscious. There is not too much for her to worry about, but she worries all the same. If she could just go with them and see for herself that everything was running smoothly –

Arthur nods. "Half an hour," he says.

"See you on the other side, darling," Eames says, settling back into the chaise. He is grinning as he closes his eyes, and Arthur, about to close his eyes himself, rolls them instead.

Ariadne leans over Arthur, just touches his wrist. His eyes are so dark, it is hard to tell for certain, but she is quite convinced that his pupils are blown huge and startled and she knows that she can see the breath in his chest still at her touch.

Eames, though he cannot see them, snorts.

Ariadne's cheeks flush. "Sleep tight," she says, and then she locks the mechanism into place with a bell-like ring of metal-on-metal. Both of them drop into unconsciousness, and Ariadne, after checking to make sure they are all solidly under, takes a seat by the door to watch the hall, to watch them, and to wait.

She arranges her pink skirts around herself and sighs, grateful for her gloves and wishing she had thought to take her wrap from the cloakroom before she came down this way. It is freezing down here, and rather eerie in the darkness.

It is, Ariadne thinks, going to be a long night.


End file.
